"Did they tell you what they have?"
"Yeah, they did. Professional to professional. Bloody bowling ball at the scene, his prints on the ball. Hearsay about him getting in some knockdown with the vic a couple of weeks previous to the murder. But then some woman came forward with an alibi for him. So they're probably going to have to drop the charge, refile if they get something else. They're still digging. But he's still their Number One guy—since they don't have anyone else."
"Holly Spivak threw money at the alibi," Maggie told him, and watched as he winced as if in real pain. "Yeah, I know. Not good, right?"
"Not great, no. Is Bernie here? I thought you said something to me on the phone about calling Bernie to come home. She might be able to help."
"She's not coming. Or Tabby, either, who's visiting her in-laws in Nebraska or some other godforsaken place. Not that I could figure out why I'd need my literary agent at a time like this—but you know Tabby. She worries," Maggie told him as Sterling—hopefully back to his helpful, uncomplicated self—handed her a glass of cold water. "Thanks, Sterling. And Bernie's not coming because she met somebody, some international banker who will probably turn out to be an international jewel thief, or an international gold digger."
"A miner?" Sterling sat down on the facing couch. "I would imagine that would be a very interesting occupation."
Maggie smiled at her friend. "I love you, Sterling."
"I love you, too, Maggie," Sterling said. "I said something silly and entirely inappropriate again, didn't I?"
"Uh ..."
"Gotta go, Mags," Steve broke in, slapping his hands against his thighs as if he was about to turn to his trusty horse, mount up, and gallop into the sunset. "You need anything, you let me know."
Maggie waited until Steve had closed the door behind him before speaking to Sterling once more. "You don't say silly or inappropriate things, Sterling. You say very entertaining and sweet things. You're extremely ... literal. That's how I created you to be. You can't help it. You're only being you."
"Yes, I suppose so," he said, getting to his feet. "But I shouldn't be. Not now that I'm ... er, um ... will we be driving back to Ocean City yet tonight, Maggie? I should imagine we should start soon, then, as I was listening to the weather birdie box chirping and there may be snow soon."
"The weather birdie—oh, right. That weather box thingie you bought. Yes, sure, we'll go back tonight. Nothing keeping us here, and maybe Alex found something out today, snooping around."
"Saint Just doesn't snoop, Maggie. He detects."
"By snooping," Maggie said, pushing herself to her feet. "You were going to say something, Sterling, a moment ago? It seemed important."
"Me? No, not me. I rarely ever say anything important," he said, walking over to the large box. "I know what's inside this box, Maggie. A lovely Crock-Pot—that's what Mr. Campiano's man called it—filled to the brim with meatballs from Mr. Campiano's favorite restaurant. Saint Just complimented them when they dined together, remember? They're still hot, and soaking in a lovely fragrant red gravy. Shall we take them with us?"
"Two Crock-Pots full of meatballs? Hey, why not," she said, smiling slowly. "We'll take one to Dad's place ... and I think I have an idea of where to deliver the other one. Give me ten minutes, Sterling, and we'll leave."
"You look like the cat with canary feathers protruding from the corner of her mouth, Maggie. What are you planning?"
"Oh, nothing much. And it will all be entirely innocent. Only I doubt the person on the other end is going to think so. Sterling, you are a sweet, kind, loving person. Believe it. But me? I'm mean. I'm mean to the bone ..."
Chapter Eighteen
Maggie hesitated, the fork speared through half a meatball almost to her mouth as she sat in her dad's small kitchen a few hours later. "Come again? There's a what?"
Saint Just smiled, motioned for her to eat the meatball, which was dripping sauce on the tabletop. "Yes, that was rather my reaction, as well, although I, unlike you, managed to hide my dismay. Not without effort, I admit. I said, they have formed a club. Or at least my new friends Joe and Sam believe that. I've yet to approach your sister about the thing, feeling the subject to be rather delicate. I waited for you, and will allow you to broach the question."
Maggie spoke around the meatball, her third. "Gee, thanks—you coward. And how the hell do I do that? I mean, it's a real wowzer of a subject, Alex. Alex? What was that? Don't tell me you—"
"Oh, but I did." Saint Just had also heard the knock on the door, and stood up. "I'm confident you'll figure out exactly what to say. And that you'll be sympathetic, even kind. Sterling has your father nicely occupied at the movie theater, if you'll recall, so I'll go personally welcome her in, shall I?"
"Now? You invited her here now? Why did you do that? Now? I'm not ready for this. I'll never be ready for this."
He hid his smile, being a prudent man. "I had assumed you'd be returning earlier than you did, affording us more time to discuss the matter and formulate some sort of delicate approach. My apologies. But rough ground is to be got over as quickly as possible, yes?"
"I'm not riding a freaking horse, Alex. Damn, she's knocking again. Go let her in."
Saint Just inclined his head slightly to Maggie and walked to the door, opening it to see Maureen standing in the hallway, her seemingly ever-present apron visible beneath her opened coat, all of her looking sad, regrettably dumpy, and exceedingly nervous.
"Ah, good evening, my dear. Thank you so much for coming," he said, surprising himself by leaning forward to kiss Maureen's ice-cold cheek. "Maggie's in the kitchen. Do you like meatballs?"
"I ... uh ... I guess so," Maureen said as Saint Just took her coat. "I still don't understand why you wanted me to come over here, Alex. Is Maggie all right? I know she went to the doctor today. Does she need my help getting into the shower, or something? I know when John broke his leg I had to help him tape a garbage bag around his cast so it wouldn't get wet in the shower."
She turned to Saint Just, wrinkled up her nose. "They smell something awful when they get wet, you know. You don't want to be anywhere near when they finally cut off Maggie's cast, believe me."
"I'll be certain to keep that in mind, thank you," Saint Just said as, with a graceful sweep of his arm, he indicated that Maureen should precede him into the kitchen. At least the woman appeared talkative, not her usual quiet self. Could that be a good sign? Or a sign that she was highly nervous? Perhaps he hadn't been as cryptic as he'd hoped when he'd phoned to ask her to stop by the apartment.
Ah, well, Maggie would cope. She wouldn't like it, but she would cope. Pluck to the backbone, that was his Maggie. Unfortunately, she was also now armed with that ridiculous horn, and had been squeezing it whenever she didn't appreciate something he said.
Maureen didn't seem to be finished with the subject of the trials and tribulations relating to casts. "And with Maggie? No, she won't want you there when the cast is cut off. Especially not when she hasn't been able to shave her leg in—oh, hi, Mags."
"Hi, Reenie." Maggie waved weakly to her sister, and then glared at Saint Just. Obviously she hadn't as yet quite formed a definite plan of attack. "Want a meatball?"
Maureen slid onto the plastic seat opposite her sister, eyeing Maggie's plate with barely hidden trepidation. "You made those?"
"Me? Right. Would I be eating them, if I made them? No, they were a gift. Alex, get Maureen a plate and a fork, please."
"And ... and a glass of water?" Maureen added pitifully as she reached into the pocket of her apron. "I, um, I think I need to take a pill."